


The Warlock's Wife

by Nehszriah



Series: Fae and Fantasy Doctor Who AUs [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bewitched AU, F/M, Gen, Magic, Witches and Warlocks, plus some added rules and things because why not, with Clara as the Darren
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After how unexpectedly sudden her last relationship ended, Clara Oswald was certain that she wouldn’t find someone that could live up to her standards. Then Basil enters her life and she’s swept off her feet. The only problem is that he’s hiding something from her and it only takes until it’s too late to come out in the open. [Bewitched AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Looking in the mirror before her, Clara Oswald attempted to not cry as she gave herself one quick look-over before things got under way. She never thought she’d see the day, which was really saying something given the fact she was still fairly young, but after the freak traffic accident that had claimed the life of her old boyfriend Danny, a hole had been left in her heart and soul, telling her that she was doomed. It had been confirmed when she found an engagement ring in his flat while cleaning it out, hidden in a drawer between his old iPod and a box of trinkets he’d kept since childhood—she was cursed.

Except, as mourners had come and gone and people began to console her less and less, Clara had found herself becoming increasingly attached to one of her coworkers with alarming speed. Basil was the music instructor at Coal Hill, a long-standing hire that encouraged the students despite being rather standoffish in most situations. It had started as a bit of coworker solidarity, but as time went on, she had found the aging, semi-tamed punk to be full of interesting stories and not yet done thrashing about in life. He always knew she was feisty and caring, though the depths of her persona really would shine through when they were alone and no one was around to judge. Both of them were aware that they were treading the fine line between desperate rebound and respectfully moving on, and were therefore as cautious as possible when it came to their budding relationship.

Now, a little over two and a half years down the line, Clara was standing there in a wedding dress, waiting in a church alcove to be walked down the aisle and meet Basil at the altar.

“Clara?” Her father poked his head in as he knocked at the door, the man beaming with pride. “Ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied. They hooked arms and waited in the vestibule as the pre-ceremony music played. “I’m so glad this is happening—it’s like a dream.”

“The fact that you’re happy is all I need,” Dave mentioned. He kissed her on the forehead and held on tight as the song that was their cue swelled up. They turned into the main space of the church and slowly made their way through the pews filled with family and friends. At the very front near the vicar was Basil, who nearly burst into tears at the sight of his bride. His tuxedo was as white as her dress, his silver hair slicked back into a semblance of tame, and the lines on his face nearly seemed to melt away as he grinned at her.

The two men passed Clara’s hand between them and the ceremony began.

* * *

Letting her eyes flutter open, Clara turned her head and glanced over at her husband. Her _husband_ , God, it was good to think. He was laying on his stomach, arm draped over her midsection and using her shoulder as a pillow. She kissed his grey curls and gave his back a pat.

“Hey there,” she murmured sweetly. “I didn’t wear you out _that much_ last night, did I?”

“You mean we can’t take advantage of the lack of pudding brains to rush towards?” he answered. Basil clutched his wife closer and rubbed his face between her bare breasts. “It’s what summer holidays are for.”

“Yes, but we’ve got to get going if we want to make it up to the cottage before nightfall,” she reminded him. “It’s going to end up being a good nine hours’ drive.”

“Only because you’re going to have us stop too often,” he teased. With that they got up and dressed, picking up their things from last night and thankful for the foresight to pack along normal clothes for their one-night hotel stay. They were about to live out of a suitcase for an entire month, so the thought of clothes were all concentrated on then.

After a decidedly unromantic breakfast in the hotel dining area (children running around screaming, businessmen in their pajamas, unbathed legions not yet ready for the day) and dropping off their clothes from the day prior at Dave’s, Clara and Basil got in his car (which his bride suspected was older than she was) and headed north out of Blackpool and towards Scotland. It did take nearly the entire nine hours Clara had predicted, but they had finally rolled up to their cozy little cottage surrounded by Cairngorms National Forest and little else other than a private drive and a caretaker’s house half a mile away.

“Now this is exactly what I was dreaming about,” Basil grinned, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. He was looking out over the park, with patches of field and forest over rolling mountains that hid their cottage from the others in the cluster. “You can’t find privacy like this down in London, not when you’re piled atop one another like a bunch o’dead fish. A pair can have a proper honeymoon up here.”

“Sounds like _someone_ regrets giving his nephew the spare key to the flat,” Clara chuckled. She hugged him from behind, resting her forehead on his back. Troy was a good guy, the man everyone had expected Basil would introduce her to after she’d healed from Danny’s death, but instead she’d fallen for his uncle, twenty-five years their senior and much more insufferable than anyone else thought tolerable. Instead the two were good friends, to the point where he’d stood up in the wedding.

“If the cat hasn’t eaten the fish by the time we get back, I’m going to be amazed,” he snarked. He turned, facing his wife before taking her hand and kissing it reverently. “This next month is going to be about us—no family, no friends, no students—nothing but you, me, and the Scottish wilderness.”

“Let’s get inside first before you start romancing—it’s bloody cold out here,” she frowned. Basil smirked inwardly as he listened to Clara complain about single digits in the middle of summer, knowing he had made the right choice to marry her. She was feisty and driven and knew precisely what she wanted… and what she wanted was _him_. It was enough to make his trousers tight at the very thought.

Rushing to beat the oncoming storm that announced itself with a rolling wave of thunder, the newlyweds quickly unpacked the boot and settled into their temporary home. It was tiny, with a sitting room that opened into the kitchen, a large bay window, and a fireplace ready to be used at a moment’s notice. The bedroom was at least attempting to be spacious, which gave it points, and the bathroom was the only normal-sized part of the whole house. It would do for the month, but it was definitely a place that neither Clara nor Basil would want to live in permanently.

Once the bags were unpacked and the utilities flicked on, the honeymoon officially began. A vicious game of rock-paper-scissors determined that Clara would make dinner while Basil strummed idly on his guitar ( _electric guitar_ , because it had _apparently_ been essential to haul an ancient amp up to Scotland) to serenade her. The kitchen was well-stocked with everything they’d need for the week, so she had no problem coming up with something to eat. Basil cleaned up afterwards and grinned madly as he flopped into the couch, cuddling up atop of Clara.

“You sure this is where you want to start?” he asked cheekily. He kissed the side of her head and curled around her, enveloping her body with his. “There might be an extra cleaning surcharge.”

“Oh, I think we’ll move into bed when the time is right,” she purred. They then began to kiss, languidly caressing one another. “You know, I’m already considering looking into how much the family-sized cottages might be around our tenth anniversary.”

“You don’t want to find a sitter instead? I think Dave would be all about that.”

“Dad would do nothing but spoil them rotten; maybe if Troy and River have kids by then…”

“Ha, Troy and kids…” Basil laughed. He then continued to kiss Clara, until something he would have rather done without interrupted them.

“You called?”

Clara gasped and pushed away from Basil, sitting straight up on the couch to find Troy standing only a few feet away from them, grinning at them cheerily. Her eyes went wide as she stared at him in an admixture of terror and confusion.

“How the bloody hell did you get here?!” she demanded. “You should be sopping wet! Where’s your car?!” She turned towards her husband, who was currently white as a sheet. “This better be a joke!”

“I didn’t think I said his name that loud…” he moaned in anguish. Troy looked from Basil to Clara and back, realization violently hitting his strong-jawed face.

“You didn’t tell her,” Troy gathered. “Uncle Basil, why didn’t you tell her?”

“…because I told you: I’m going to live like her!” Basil replied crossly. He stood and got in his nephew’s face, completely exasperated. “Why would you even answer what _might_ be a call from a man on his honeymoon anyhow?!”

“Okay, hold up, wait a second; what is going on?!” Clara asked. “What do you mean you’re going to live like me?! Basil, you know that you are the only man left alive for me, so you better start talking before I decide to take the car down to the village and spend the night in a pub.”

“…I, uh, better be going then,” Troy cringed. He snapped his fingers and vanished, only causing Clara’s eyes to go wider.

“I’m sorry, Clara,” Basil apologized, “but I didn’t want you to know, not unless it was absolutely necessary…”

“…know what…?” Her voice was quiet now, and she took a cautionary step backwards.

“I’m… not… twenty-five years older than you.”

“If you’re not fifty-four, then how old are you?”

He wrenched his eyes shut, not wanting to see her reaction. “I’m actually five-hundred forty-nine years old.”

“…five-hundred forty-nine…?”

“…and I’m a warlock.”

“Basil, look at me,” Clara ordered. He did so, seeing that she was far from looking pleased. “Wouldn’t you think that would be something _important_ to tell me **_before_** we got married?”

“Clara… Clara… Clara…” His brain was sputtering, nowhere near possessing the sharp tongue he was normally graced with. Instead of facing her dead-on, he hugged her, avoiding looking her straight in the eyes. “Clara, I’m sorry. I figured, if I had lived as a mortal for as long as I have, what’s another seventy years? I would do that for you.”

“Basil McGuiness Smith,” she hissed as she pushed away from him. “I am going to have a lie down, and by the time I get back you _better_ have a good explanation for all this, because I am _not_ starting off our marriage being lied to.” She stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her, attempting to keep himself from breaking out into a full-blown panic.

“TROY!” Basil bellowed at the ceiling. His floppy-haired, bow-tied nephew appeared almost immediately, though with the couch between them this time.

“How’d she take it?” he inquired.

“I might be heading towards my personal worst as far as marriage to divorce,” Basil growled. “This even tops you and Marilyn.”

“Okay, to be fair, we were not married, because River would have likely crashed the wedding,” Troy defended. “Second, you _know_ a union between magic and mortal can only work if the mortal knows what they’re getting into! The two of you want kids! What would happen if out popped a baby witch? ‘ _Oh by the way dear: our daughter will levitate when her nappy needs changing_ ’? I don’t think she’d like to have the news broken to her _then_.”

“I know how it works, you wee piece of shite,” Basil snapped. “I _also_ know that magic doesn’t always beget magic. We could have _mortal children_ and live like the rest of them do. I just want to spend _a life_ with Clara, even if it’s only _hers_.”

“You know I’m tempted to tell Granddad about this…”

“…but Granddad hates Clara anyhow—refused to go to the ceremony, refused to even _meet_ her—he’d thrilled to hear I got divorced after a day because you teleported your way to my honeymoon!” Basil stopped for a moment in thought, furrowing his brow. “Don’t you have a shift tonight at the shop?”

“I very suddenly had too much water before I punched in,” Troy deadpanned. “You’ve been happy since you and Clara started seeing one another, Uncle Basil. I’d hate for it to all go sour because you couldn’t admit who we are.”

“…a music teacher and the manager of a department store’s toy section?”

“…people born with the inherent ability to use magic.” The younger man walked around the couch and put his hands on the elder’s shoulders. “Considering how unpleasant you are normally, I think if you explain this to her calmly and rationally, she’ll come to understand.”

“I am perfectly pleasant; it’s the rest of the world that doesn’t know how to behave,” Basil frowned. He shoved off Troy and turned away from him. “Just go—you’ve done enough already.”

“Alright,” Troy sighed, pushing back his quiff with a hand. “Just give me fair warning if you need to sleep on the couch, since that’s where River’s Egyptology stuff is dumped while she’s moving offices.” He snapped his fingers again, leaving Basil alone in the sitting room once again.

Cautiously, Basil padded his way through the cottage and opened the door to the bedroom. Clara was sitting on the bed, curled up while clutching a pillow, staring at him as the storm raged on outside. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, halfway down the bed. Her eyes were so wide, so terrified, so set on _him_ , that it hurt.

“What’s going on…?” she asked quietly. “What _are_ you?”

“I am your husband, Basil—”

“—not _who_ are you, but **_what_** ; what happened out there that was such a secret that you couldn’t trust me with it before we got married?” Her voice grew sharper with each syllable, adrenaline kicking in.

“I am a warlock—a male witch—sort of like all that Harry Potter shit but without the early-installment whimsy,” he explained. “No one knows how it happened, but all over the world, since prehistoric times, there have been people that have been able to use magic. Well, I say _magic_ , but a lot of it has to do with science and our inherent ability to create a temporary manipulation of natural laws and…” He then caught himself, noting that he was beginning to ramble and talk with his hands. Refocusing, Basil sat on one hand and placed the other palm-down on the bed between him and Clara. “I may not have told you everything, but I haven’t lied to you aside from my age. Even the most open-minded mortals have a difficult time believing in magic, which was why I didn’t say anything definitive on the matter.”

“Troy said our kids could be magic,” she recalled. “Do you think I would have been happier to learn _then_?”

“My son from my first wife wasn’t,” he said. “I watched him and his mother both grow old and die before I had a single grey hair on my head. There was a daughter from that union too… she was like me, but didn’t make it out of Napoleonic France. It’s been a long time since I’ve known what it is to have a family, a marriage, a relationship that lasts more than a couple years because they’ve noticed that I stay the same while they wither away… I would have told you, once you noticed, but for now I’m perfectly content not bringing it up because it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. That’s _tricking me into marriage by withholding information_ ,” she mentioned. “How do you even _do_ magic?”

“Like this.” Basil glanced towards the nightstand and waggled his eyebrows. Immediately a bouquet of flowers in an elegant vase appeared without so much as an incantation. “See?”

“…and it just came out of thin air?”

“No; the flowers are from various hothouses, but the vase is one that’s been in my attic for a long time,” he said. Clara stared at him, trying to make sense of it. “Well, the stuff has to come from _somewhere_ , doesn’t it? Just because it’s magic doesn’t mean there aren’t any laws to abide by.”

“So they’re _stolen_ …”

“No, they’re from magic-friendly establishments—they let us take one or two every now and then with our abilities and one of us gets a call once in a while to help with the growing processes—we’re not out in the open, but most of us aren’t _that_ xenophobic.”

“Then which ones of you are?”

He paused, reluctant to answer. “Grandfather.”

“Is he your granddad or Troy’s granddad?”

“He’s… he’s the eldest warlock, one of the Old Ones from the beginning. The Old Ones are sort of like a high council of sorts. Few call him something other than Grandfather, or Granddad informally. He is _my_ grandfather though, Troy’s great-grandfather, and considering he wasn’t thrilled about my first family, I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled about you and then decide to pretend I don’t exist for a couple centuries.” He slid down the mattress and took Clara’s hand in his, kissing it gently. “I don’t care about being ostracized for a few hundred years, because instead I will have something that Granddad can’t even begin to fathom.”

“…and what’s that?” Clara wondered.

“You,” Basil replied. “I will have you, and eventually the memory of you, and a family whom I not only care for, but care for me in return. Being so long-lived, warlocks and witches forget sometimes what it’s like _to live_ instead of merely exist. I live when I’m with you, Clara… and it’s something that will keep me going for many, many years to come.”

Sitting there, Clara gazed into her husband’s eyes as he kept hold of her hand. They were the same eyes that proposed to her, five months earlier as they had a night-in because the Spring rains cancelled their picnic. He had said something grossly poetic, bent down on a knee in her flat’s tiny sitting room, and silently pulled a boxless ring from his pocket. She looked down at her left hand, staring at the new ring that had sat there only a little more than twenty-four hours at that point, frowning as her chest grew tight and she began to tremble.

“I bought those—no magic,” he assured her, reading the emotions on her face. “I’m serious about playing by mortals’ rules for you. Our house was paid off by the rules, as was the car, our rings, our wedding… I might take shortcuts here or there when it comes to tidiness, but if that bothers you, I know how to do everything the old-fashioned way.”

“Basil, I…” she started. Clara exhaled heavily, taking her hand back and turning her gaze towards her lap. “I want to be with you, but can you give me a bit of time to digest this? Hiding something this big… it could make our relationship different.”

“If it is, then I hope it is for the better,” he said. He gently tilted her chin up and pressed their lips together. “Turn in early? Storms are excellent sleeping weather.”

She nodded and they both began to ready themselves for bed. It was luck now, Clara thought, that she had brought a flannel nightie with her as well as the more revealing things she’d brought for fun, though the reason why was lost on her now. She slipped into it and slid into bed, soon joined by Basil, whom had stripped down to his question-mark pants. He laid with his back to her, so she could snuggle up from behind and wrap her arms around him.

“Mmm, Basil?” Clara wondered, half to the dark room and half to his hair.

“Yes, Clara?”

“How old would she have been? Your daughter?”

“Five hundred-seventeen,” he replied. “She only made it to three hundred-fourteen—an Old One had something to do with it, I know it deep in me, and she wasn’t the marrying or child-bearing type, so she was the end of her line.”

“…what about your son? Did he have children?”

“Yes, but by that time his family had been wiped out by measles and smallpox—epidemics worked much too well in those days.” He took one of the hands from his chest and kissed the fingertips. “You are my family now.”

While part of her was still undeniably on-edge, Clara couldn’t help but feel incredibly honored.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little infodumpy, but it gets the story rolling.

Morning broke, with Clara finding herself warm and comfortable within bed despite the steady rain that was still hitting against the windowpanes. Sometime over the course of the night she and Basil had switched places, and now she was on her back with him curled up along her side. Soon as she moved, he woke up as well, propping himself up on and elbow to gaze down at her in a sleepy, ruffled state.

“You doing alright?” he asked. “Last night was quite the shock.”

“ _Victorians_ suffered from shock; _I’m_ fine,” she insisted. She caught sight of the vase on the nightstand and her stomach churned. “It still feels like a bad dream though.”

“I’m no different, and neither are you,” he assured her. He fussed over her bedhead before kissing her forehead and getting up, scratching himself as he left the room.

‘ _Yes, but are **we** different?_ ’ Clara wondered. She stretched and rolled out of bed, getting ready with her usual morning routine. After putting the sheets back in order she laid out her clothes for the day. It was supposed to be cold still, so it was layers for her, something she had specifically planned for, making sure she had plenty of cute things to pile atop one another. She found her bathrobe and went to go take a shower, finally washing the miles they’d traveled the day before down the drain.

When Clara was done, with only her robe around her and the towel twisted into her hair, she went towards the kitchen, where she found Basil putting together their breakfast.

“Don’t have much by the way of chips, but there’s enough in here for a mean omelette,” he explained. The coffee pot was already full, which was something Clara delighted in as she got herself a mug of the stuff. She sat down at the table and watched her husband, cooking their food while still in his pants, the fool that he was.

“You can’t just snap your fingers and it’s done?” she asked, almost sharply. Basil glanced at her sideways, hurt.

“Only the strongest witches and warlocks can do something like that,” he said. “I’m not small-fry, but I’m still poor enough in some areas to where I’m not all-powerful.” His brows wiggled and the refrigerator opened on its own, long enough for some jam and butter to float out and towards the table, settling in front of Clara. “Actually, the only one I know that’s even remotely capable of doing that is probably my nephew John, but he’s off doing something-or-other and I last heard from him about seven years ago.”

“Who all _are_ witches and warlocks, anyhow?” Clara asked. Basil put their omelettes on plates and carried them over, sitting down next to her to eat. “I know you and Troy are, but is River too?”

“River is, but she isn’t,” he shrugged. Toast popped up from the toaster and his eyebrows waggled again, the cooked bread zooming across the room to rest on the edges of their plates. “She was something of a genetic experiment to see if two mortals could give birth to magic—her parents and I were friends at the time, and needless to say we weren’t happy. My nephew John—Troy’s brother—I’m not sure if you’ll ever meet him, since he’s off mourning his mortal girlfriend. He gets like that: just sort of mood-swings from relationship to relationship. Their mam, my sister, is Donna, and though she’s not as powerful as John, watch out when she’s cross.”

“She did seem to give off that impression.” She recalled her first meeting with her sister-in-law the other day; the loud, brash red-head was an interesting experience all on her own. “How come she looks so much younger than you? I know you’re older, but she almost looks the same age as her sons.”

“Age-defying something or other… witches can be just as vain as mortal women.”

“She doesn’t seem very vain.”

“Then it might be the wrong word.” He thought for a moment, chewing on a mouthful of omelette and toast. “Whatever it is, Sarah doesn’t have it.” Oh yes, his elder sister Sarah Jane: the one who seemed to be, aside from Troy, the most level-headed of the entire family, even including her daughter. “Ashley’s a witch, but she’s still young enough to not be fully-developed in her powers.”

“How old is she?” Clara asked. “I tried getting her age out of both her and Sarah, but it was useless. What is she… sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Hundred-sixty-three; her aging slowed early and she’s looked the same way since she saw the first American football game. She blames the sport, naturally.”

“I think you can blame plenty of things on that sport,” she quipped. Basil snickered and something tiny fluttered in Clara’s heart. Oh, yes, she was still in love with him. A thought popped up in her head and she picked at her omelette. “Do witches and warlocks often find human spouses?”

“No,” he replied. “Magic doesn’t always marry, and if they do, then it’s more likely to be with their own kind than with mortals. John thought I was kidding when I warned him that losing a mortal love hurts more than anything—we’re not really equipped to handle that sort of loss.”

“…then why did you marry me?”

He paused, pondering his answer, before continuing. “Mortals have something that witches and warlocks don’t have, which has historically made a few of us gravitate towards the harsher path…”

“…which is…?”

“… _vibrancy_ ,” he finished. “As I said last night: mortals know how to make the best of their lives, whereas magic often doesn’t. It’s how I fell in love with you, with my first wife, with whoever comes after you, if there is someone after you. Being with a mortal… puts things into perspective.”

“Wow, Uncle Basil—you _are_ a softie. It nearly makes me want to vomit,” smirked a voice. The couple glanced over into the sitting room to see their niece Ashley reclined on the couch, fiddling with Basil’s guitar.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” Basil snapped.

“ _Well_ , last night after getting off of work, Troy told Aunt Donna what happened here, and then first thing today Aunt Donna told _Mum_ over coffee and I overheard, so…”

“…you came to see for yourself.” He stood and stomped over towards Ashley, taking his guitar away from the young woman. “Don’t you have anything better to do than _invade my privacy_?!”

“Not in this family,” Ashley stated. She stood, not even coming up to her uncle’s chin, and began to saunter towards the kitchen. “You know, I _am_ rather impressed that you were able to keep our family’s dirty little secret for so long. Sounds like Troy always knew, but he and River were careful not to say anything because the four of you were always around _other_ mortals all the time. Looking at the turnout at the ceremony, I’d say that keeping the secret was always _top_ priority, though I didn’t think it went all the way to your wife.”

“Your _aunt_ ; and she now knows, so treat her with respect,” Basil demanded.

“ _Do_ I have to call you ‘aunt’?” Ashley asked Clara. “It just seems so odd.”

“I’d like it if you did, but I can’t force you,” she replied. Clara thought for a moment, observing the teen-in-looks, and pursed her lips into a frown. “You do realize that this is a _honeymoon_ , where your uncle and I could have been doing any sort of thing when you popped in.”

“I’ve seen it all; not to worry,” Ashley shrugged. She went into the refrigerator and took a bottle of water, downing half of it. “You can’t make me blush.”

“Ashley, _out_ ,” Basil demanded. His niece wiggled her nose and vanished. “That little shit is going to regret her behavior.”

“What? It’s not like Sarah Jane can ground her,” Clara said, brushing it off. “Let her be like that; it’ll bite her in the end.”

“It better,” he grumbled, putting down his guitar and walking back over to the kitchen table. He picked up his plate and held it as he shoveled the rest of his omelette in his mouth. “C’mon, Clara—let’s get in a go before the hike we’ve got planned, or we won’t be able to get around to _anything_.”

* * *

The remainder of the honeymoon was surprisingly quiet. No one else showed up in the cottage, or the wood, or the village, or anywhere else the newlyweds went. Basil and Clara both were on-edge the entire time, though they _swore_ to themselves that they were not going to let his family ruin all their fun. They took long hikes around the park, visited the quaint village to battle other tourists for spots in the cafes and pub, and spent days in where all they did was laze about and cuddle.

Though, instead of nights full of intimate and sordid play, a new ritual began instead: Clara and Basil would get ready for sleep, crawl into bed together, and before anything else could begin, he told her about his life and his kind. With her arms wrapped around him, her chest to his back, he would explain all the intricacies of magic and the sort of people that wielded it. She learned about past loves, experiences, and all the lives he had to lead. When she was tired of listening, which was rather difficult considering his accent, she would roll him onto his back and kiss him, deliberately shutting him up.

They were now the Oswald-Smiths, and very little was going to change that.

* * *

When it came time to go back to London, it also meant, of course, that the couple had to go back to work. Kids flooded the yard and corridors of Coal Hill School, bringing havoc back with them as another school year was bracing to begin. Clara and Basil went to work together, as they had for over a term beforehand, though soon as her first period students saw them, they were met with a round of playful heckling.

“Alright, alright, shut it or I turn you all into frogs,” Basil scowled. His wife stared at him all eyes while the young teens laughed. “What? I could turn them into toads instead. Squirrels? Pangolins?”

“ _Out_ ,” Clara demanded, shoving her smirking husband into the corridor. The bell rang shortly thereafter and it was time to get to business. “Okay class, welcome back! It seems like everyone in here is a familiar face, so I’m going to go straight into passing out the syllabus.”

“Are you Mrs. Smith now or are you still Oswald?” a girl asked near the back of the room. Her hand shot up after Clara tilted her head and stared at her from underneath her brows.

“We’re _Oswald-Smith_ , for the record; I’m still listed as Oswald on your schedules because my name wasn’t changed yet in the computer when they were printed out.” She paused and glanced around at all the other expectant faces and sighed in defeat. “Does anyone _else_ have any questions?”

“Where did you go on your honeymoon?”

“Scotland, to a cottage that sits on the edge of a national park; he spent plenty of time there as a boy and it was something he wanted to share with me.”

“Did you have your first fight already?”

“Yes, and it was pretty quick to start too, which means none of you are in danger of getting caught in any sort of crossfire.”

“My nan wants to know if you’re having babies now or never, since Mr. Oswald-Smith is old.”

“Tell your nan that’s a very personal and highly intrusive question that she has to come to me and ask in person on Parents’ Night. One more?”

“Is he really a magician or is the outfit just for show?”

Clara thought for a moment before nodding decisively. “He looks good in it; that’s all I can say.” She then began handing out small piles of paper, having the students pass them backwards. “Now, if you will all please look over the syllabus, I have some new guidelines I have to go over in accordance to the new curriculum that was approved over the course of the—yes, what is it, Courtney?”

“He doesn’t _seem_ like he’s a normal bloke, or do you mean he’s a magician in the bedroom?” the teen snarked. The rest of the class laughed, though their teacher didn’t find it nearly as funny.

“Do you _want_ to break your old record for being sent down to the headmaster?” she warned. “I’m not in the mood this morning, Miss Woods.”

“If you’re not in the mood, does that mean you’re preggers?”

“No; it means I would like some respect as an authority figure right out of the gate, if you don’t mind.” She’d make something of herself, Clara knew Courtney would, but it was only a matter of surviving the young woman’s educator to see her there first.

* * *

Meanwhile, on another floor and in another wing, Basil was sitting at his desk, miniature amphitheatre-style classroom completely empty. His students wouldn’t start reporting until the following week, when the Department Head was done with tryouts and assigning teachers based on skill levels. It would shuffle around _many_ schedules and cause more headache than was actually needed, but he couldn’t argue with it. Well, he _could_ , but who was he but someone who actually _met_ some of the composers they were going to practice that term (down to a brawl with Johannes Brahms, something that he loved telling students about despite their dour disbelief). He was merely a simple music instructor who enjoyed passing on his knowledge and passion for the art to the younger generation…

…except, to him, most everyone _alive_ was the younger generation.

Basil was going over the list of potential students and the list of instruments they were available to play when a voice attempted to interrupt him. “A promising group this year?”

“Of course… it always is,” he answered automatically. Basil paused and turned his stare upwards; there, sitting on one of the steps built into the floor, was his niece Ashley. She was dressed sharply, the business suit she wore making her nearly seem adult, and wore a smirk on her face that told her uncle she was up to something.

“Can you please _leave_?” he asked politely. “I’m trying to get some work done here.”

“Are you sure about that? I mean, you barely get anything done the first week of term—it’s so boring.”

“…and how would you know that?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve spied on you while at work,” she admitted cheerily. “I’m not entirely sure why you are insistent on teaching mortals anything; they all wither away into dust and smoke before they can do very much.”

“It’s what they can do in the short amount of time that makes it worth it,” he argued calmly. There was no use blowing his top while at work at this point—he was going to save this incident for another day. “Don’t make me call Sarah on you.”

“Mum’s off covering the refugee crisis thanks to that quake in China; do you _really_ want to pull her away from that?”

“Try me,” he said flatly. “I bet Sarah would love to hear what you were up to up in Cairngorms last month, pestering your aunt and me.” Basil placed his pointer fingers on his temples, taking a deep breath in order to shout the summoning incantation that would pull his elder sister halfway across the world and away from her job. His niece panicked, eyes going wide.

“No! No, don’t call Mum!” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, alright?! I’m sorry I dropped in on you and Aunt Clara on your honeymoon! Just _don’t call Mum!_ ”

“Atta girl,” he chuckled, bringing his hands down. “Now bugger off unless it’s important, yeah? I’ve got work to do.” Ashley wriggled her nose and quickly vanished without a trace.

‘ _Hundred sixty-three and still the brain of a teenager_ ,’ Basil thought. ‘ _She’ll learn one of these days._ ’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a wee bit on the shorter side compared to the first two, but it's what I got since it's mainly just a scene-type thing.

Having successfully navigated the hormone-filled corridors, Basil stepped into the main school office and breathed a sigh of relief. The end of the school day was always an intense time of shrieking and running about and that day had been no exception. He went over to the labeled pigeonhole mailboxes and plucked the post and staff memos that had been shoved into both his spot and his wife’s. Giving them a cursory glance-through, he decided they were nothing worth panicking over and tucked them under his arm as he went back towards the door.

“Oh, Basil, can I ask a favor?”

He really didn’t want to turn around and answer Mr. Coburn, but considering the scolding he’d gotten from Clara last time the boss went ignored, Basil deemed it necessary to turn around and acknowledge the headmaster.

“Sure; what can I do for you?”

“Mel’s at home ill today, and normally it wouldn’t be a problem, but she had detention duty this month and…”

“…and you want me to sit it,” Basil finished. “I have a wife to go home with now, James. You can’t expect me to pick up every little thing someone else drops anymore.”

“It’s only because you’re so _good_ with the kids,” Mr. Coburn insisted. “How can you be the magic miracle man and drop it so quick?”

“…because the entire thing about getting married is that I want to be magic to someone _else_ for once,” Basil said. He was about to open his mouth to argue his point further when Clara walked into the office and put her arms around him from behind.

“Clara, would you think you’d be able to watch over detention today since Mel’s absent?” Mr. Coburn asked, getting it in before Basil could react. The woman poked her head around her husband’s arm and shrugged.

“I don’t see why not—we don’t have anything in particular planned for today, so I think I can spare an hour and a half,” she said. It was pure luck that she was unable to see the deadly glare Basil was shooting their completely unfazed boss.

“Good; it starts in about fifteen minutes, since you’re so kind. I’ll be in my office doing some paperwork that Education deemed important to send me today and demand in the post tomorrow—only reason why I’m not taking it myself…”

“We’ve got it covered, Mr. Coburn,” Clara said. She turned Basil around and chuckled at his expression, waiting until the headmaster was far enough away to not hear. “We can sit it together and maybe go for dinner afterward. It won’t be that bad.”

Basil scowled sourly, that being his definitive answer. His wife automatically knew the translation: _I don’t want to, but I will if that’s what you want_. He tried, if only for her, and having that knowledge made her feel almost naughty. She knew she would make it up to him, eventually, but for now, it was time to help pitch in at work, because she would want someone to do the same for them in case of sickness or needing a personal day.

The couple then split, gathering up their things from their respective classrooms, and met back down at the detention hall. There were only a few students—the usual Miss Courtney Woods and a small handful of thirteen-year-olds—and it seemed everyone had assignments already doled out by the instructors who levied the sentences. The teachers set down their things and sat at the front desk, only to be immediately hit with a question.

“Mrs. Oswald-Smith, I thought you were going to be the one to oversee detention,” Courtney wondered. “Can’t Mr. Oswald-Smith let you do _anything_ on your own anymore?”

“Of course he can—wait until you’re in a workplace relationship before you start questioning that sort of thing,” Basil growled. Clara tapped the back of his head and gave their charge a smile.

“We have plans for after this, meaning it’s easier for us to watch over you together than it is to meet up later,” she lied. The grin that spread across Courtney’s face was telling as to what she was thinking, which only made Clara groan. “No, not like _that_ ; I…” She noticed that the teen was no longer moving, and that her face was stuck. “Uh… Courtney…?”

“Froze them,” Basil said dully. He then took a music theory essay from his bag and began to mark it. “The entire detention they’re going to mentally be within a construct of their own imaginations—controlled by me, of course—and it will be guaranteed to feel more like three hours to them as opposed to one and a half.”

“That’s not fair,” she deadpanned. “What if someone else comes walking in? We can’t explain Courtney’s face to just _anyone_.”

Basil waggled his eyebrows again and Courtney’s face went blank. She sat down and joined the other students in doing assignments, seemingly working quietly.

“This is both the most amazing thing ever, as well as the creepiest,” Clara admitted. She took the top paper off her stack to start marking, though she couldn’t even begin to concentrate. “Is this why people say you’re so good with the students?”

“Part of the reason, though I only do this in certain circumstances and they immediately snap out of it in case of an emergency,” he stated. “They were misbehaving enough to need to sit detention, which makes this more than justifiable, but most of the time I have kids under control because it’s natural.”

“So none of this once we have kids of our own?”

“Our children are going to be much more behaved than these pudding-brains.”

“Even when they’re twelve years old and hate everyone and everything and we couldn’t possibly understand what they’re going through?”

“That’s when their cousin and his sassy wife come into play, or even their cool aunts who are obviously much better than everything than we are.” Basil winked at Clara, which made them both laugh quietly. The thought of children running through their house was a welcome one, though a time they wanted to stave off for a little while yet. Babies and toddlers and even little kids were one thing, but _teenagers_ were a completely different story and they wanted to be ready when they did embark down that path.

Being teachers didn’t mean they were completely turned off to the idea of having children, simply the idea of having _other people’s_ children.

A bit of time passed with the teachers marking papers while the students quietly worked and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Clara eventually excused herself and went to the loo, then down to the teacher’s lounge to make her and Basil a cuppa as a surprise. She was right outside the door to the detention hall when an orangutan dressed in a suit came hobbling down the corridor, surprising her so greatly that she nearly dropped the tea as she screamed.

“What’s going on?” Basil wondered, poking his head out the hall door. When he saw his wife standing with half-spilled tea and a balding orangutan, he groaned and shook his head. “James, get back to your office.” The primate did as he was told and walked away, leaving Basil to take his tea from Clara and try to pop back into the room.

“What in the world was that?!” she gasped.

“An orangutan,” he said plainly.

“I can see it’s an orangutan, but what’s it doing here?!”

“Oh—I thought I’d just give him a change of pace and let him look how he acts for once.”

It took her a moment before she realized what it was he meant. “You turn Mr. Coburn back this instant!”

“I will, eventually.”

“ _Basil!_ ”

“Alright, _fine_ ,” he whined. Once he sat back down, he waggled his eyebrows once again. “We good?”

“I hope so,” she scolded. Clara sat back down at the desk they were sharing and hooked her ankle around his before continuing her marking. “Will he remember it?”

“Not a moment, but the sentiment will be left, just like with the kids,” Basil said, motioning with his pen. “You didn’t marry a cruel man.”

“No, just a mad one.”

He couldn’t really argue with that. Instead, he merely nudged her foot with his, letting her know there was still a bit of playfulness about him she couldn’t argue against.


	4. Chapter 4

Basil’s mantra was that it could always be worse. He had survived countless wars, plagues, droughts, and famines, meaning that day-to-day life was generally simple for him to deal with. In fact, there was little that the warlock could experience that would make him even flinch.

...at least, few things from the mortal side of things.

The morning had started just like any other: Basil waking up hazily in Clara’s arms as they laid in bed for as long as possible before getting up for work. He could feel her hugging him tightly, resting her nose in his hair and attempting to press their bodies together.

“Hey, you up?” he asked. She nodded into his hair. “I’m gonna make some coffee—need more than a cup.”

“The alarm hasn’t gone off—” Clara was very rudely cut short by their alarm clock, causing her to groan into her husband’s shoulder. “Can’t we live off of your magic, just for a bit? You’ve said that’s what most witches and warlocks do.”

“Where’s the fun in that? We’d be lazier than a cat,” he replied. His eyes instantly went wide and he sat up. “Clara? Hon? Ask me to say something not very fun.”

“What’s up with you?” she wondered, sitting up as well. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and frowned at him. “You’re not casting a spell—stop rhyming.”

“That’s just it; something doesn’t fit,” he said. Basil clamored out of bed and went to their bathroom. He looked at his tongue in the mirror, then the insides of his eyelids, then trying to peek up his own nostrils. Clara shuffled her way to his side in the meantime, getting a start on her morning routine.

“You’re being silly,” she muttered around her toothbrush.

“Vocabularyitus is nothing to take lightly—John had it once and the fallout was frightly.”

“Oh, _God_ … call one of your sisters or something and ask for help.” Clara took one look at her husband, examining him up and down in his t-shirt and pants, before spitting in the sink. “Get some trousers on first.”

“My sisters have seen worse. It wouldn’t be the first time they played nurse.”

Without another word, Clara went back into the bedroom, grabbed her robe, and put it on as she made her way into the kitchen. The house was an interestingly large one for being in London, yet Basil had apparently gotten it as a low-cost fixer-upper that he had eyebrow-waggled his way into making it livable. The neighbors had been curious as to how the house had gone from a shuttered-up eyesore in need of a month’s worth of updating work to a pristine and modern living space, yet that was short-lived gossip once the teenaged son living three down and across the street was brought home by the police in broad daylight. Clara put together a pot of coffee—the single-cup maker was going to have to sit this particular morning out—and grabbed bread to make into toast. She was nearly ready with breakfast when Basil walked in, having put on his plaid trousers and a hoodie.

“Call Donna or Sarah Jane yet?”

“It’s trickier than you think; one’s in New York and the other’s in Minsk.”

“Just call—I put enough coffee on for all of us.” Basil nodded before putting his forefingers to his temples, closing his eyes, and concentrating on the incantation.

“ _Over land and over sea, my elder sister, I beseech thee; your brother is ill, he is in a panic, so please come to his aid before things become manic_.”

Two seconds later and Sarah Jane popped into the kitchen, a look of irritation on her face. She was holding a journalist’s notebook and had a pencil behind her ear.

“Do you _mind_?” she asked. “I was attempting to talk my way around some museum security guards so that I could write a piece on their Da Vinci exhibit. Leo would have been proud.”

“He’s being more annoying than usual,” Clara said, offering her sister-in-law a mug of coffee. The elder woman took it, relishing the liquid life given in peace offering.

“Really? How so?”

“I rhyme. Every time,” Basil admitted. “Can you fix the way I talk? I don’t need the students to gawk.”

“Here I thought you were immune to vocabularyitus after catching gigglepox as a boy,” Sarah Jane frowned.

“It’s like getting the shingles—the viruses mingle. Please help me, sis. You’re good with stuff like this.”

“I’m no doctor, but I’ll try,” Sarah Jane said. She put down her mug and pocketed the notebook before readying herself for an incantation. “ _Mumps and measles can make one feeble, vocabularyitus not; for what it’s worth, he has to work, and while sick he cannot_.” The two women then stared at Basil, hoping that it had worked.

“Go on,” Clara said. “Say something.”

“This better work or else…” Basil said. He clenched his eyes shut, hoping it worked. “…else I’ll be irritated. Hey, it worked! Thanks Sarah.”

“No problem; now if you start speaking in Cockney, take the remainder of the day off and have a soak in a tub with onion greens and rosemary.”

“…what’s wrong with him speaking in a different accent?” Clara wondered.

“Nothing, if he was attempting to change his accent, that is,” Sarah Jane replied. “He’s established in a mortal-filled life and an accent change would be disastrous at this point—it could be a sign of something worse.”

“I’ll make note of that,” Basil nodded. He picked up his coffee mug and held it up in a toast before taking a long, satisfying drink.

* * *

“Alright, so, who can tell me the difference between a minuet and a scherzo? Anyone?” Basil asked. He glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone was even paying attention. “Come on—I’m talking about the _dance_ , not something completely foreign.”

“Uh… one’s boring and the other isn’t…?” a student offered.

“Oooh! One’s French and the other isn’t!” another said.

“Okay, how’s about this: did anyone read the assignment?” Basil asked. “Show of hands; be honest.” All hands stayed down, as he expected, which caused him to groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “…and this surprises me, how?”

“Because we’re twelve years old and life’s shit,” a third student said.

“Well, you got me on both counts, but those are not reasons to have skipped your readings,” the teacher scowled. The bell rang to signal lunch—practice must have gone on longer than he thought—and he had to stop his charges from escaping. “Before you go, you’re going to need to do your readings by tomorrow _or else_ , got that? I’m picking victims at random, and whoever can’t answer gets to watch me and Mrs. Oswald-Smith make kissing faces in detention.”

A collective sound of disgust came over the class and they were allowed to leave. The tweens exited the room quick as they could, meaning that by the time Clara showed up with lunch there was not a single student in sight.

“Thank goodness you can pop out for a few minutes and get us something warm,” Basil said as they sat down at his desk, he in his chair and her in his lap. “I’d use magic, but…”

“…but you’re trying to cut back for me, which I appreciate,” she finished. She kissed him on the tip of his nose before pulling out the soups and sandwiches from the bag. “How is the music appreciation course coming?”

“ _Awful_ ,” he pouted. “Coburn and I need to discuss these marks; these kids took it thinking it’d be a walk in the park.”

Clara turned her head and looked at Basil. “That rhymed.”

“It did? I should shut my lid.”

“…until after lunch, yeah, and then let’s see if Donna can help—it was her son who you said had vocabularyitus after all.”

Basil nodded silently, concentrating on eating his food. He finished before Clara did and decided that then was a good a time as ever to call for help _again_. Letting his wife sit alone, he went to an empty space in his classroom and called, “ _Over hill and over stream, younger sister who is on my team, come help me where our sister couldn’t, because working like this I really shouldn’t_.” A moment passed and Donna popped into the room, a giant smirk on her face.

“And what do you need me to fix that Sarah couldn’t?” Donna grinned. Basil refused to answer, instead pointing at Clara.

“Whatever vocabularyitus is,” Clara said for him. “Sarah Jane tried fixing it this morning, but it came back as we were starting on lunch.”

“John and Troy had that _centuries_ ago!” Donna giggled.

“Donna, can you help me out? I feel like I’ve got the brain of a trout.”

“Won’t argue there,” she snickered. “Clara, did Sarah Jane give you a potion or use a spell?”

“A spell—something about measles.”

“Oh, no wonder… that spell is so old-fashioned that it’s only a temporary fix. What we need is something that’ll really knock you on your arse.”

“Can I still work? No room left to shirk.”

“Don’t you worry—little sis has a good cure for you if you’d just sit down.” He did so atop one of the desks, scowling at the entire situation. “ _Silver siren, purple plinth, plankton tufts, circus film—fix my brother so that he may utter dumb rhymes on his own time_.”

“…well you suck at rhyming,” Basil snarked. He stopped and chuckled at the realization that his sister’s spell worked. “Well, what do you know…”

“You need a bunch of non-rhyming words to counteract modern strains of vocabularyitus; everyone knows that,” Donna said, visibly proud of her handiwork. “That spell helped clear up my boys and they had powerful cases back then.”

“Should’ve called you to begin with,” Basil said. “Thanks, Donna.”

“It’s what sisters are for,” she replied. She snapped her fingers and was gone.

“She’s going directly to Sarah Jane, isn’t she?” Clara laughed.

“Asking both of my sisters to help with a thing is like asking them to please gossip behind my back,” he replied. The bell ending lunch then went off and the two educators could sense the mass migration that was ensuing. “Shit—went by quick.”

“We are not paid enough to do this,” she said. Clara finished her last bit of sandwich and gave her husband a quick peck on the lips. “Let’s hope this one works.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Basil indulgently watched his wife leave, snapping out of his daydream soon as the first student entered the room. As the class all filed in, he cleaned up what was left from lunch and checked over his lesson plan, seeing that most of the time was going to be spent practicing for the Christmas concert. That was going to be good—the less talking he did, the less likely he’d accidentally revert back to his annoying condition.

“Alright class, get out your music sheets—wait a second—are we all in the correct seats?”

“ _Yes_ …” the teens grumbled.

“Very good; glad you understood.”

“Um, Mr. Oswald-Smith? Why are you rhyming?”

Basil stopped for a moment and realized what had just happened, _again_. “Mrs. Oswald-Smith and I have a bet. It’s just a game, don’t you fret. If I can rhyme until the end of the day, then tonight she will make me my favorite soufflé.”

The students all seemed to buy the excuse, dropping the subject entirely in order to start preparing their instruments. Their instructor, however, cursed internally, glad that at least he could _think_ without rhyming. He had to figure out something, and quick.

* * *

Vocabularyitus was not supposed to be this difficult.

His sisters had tried seven different spells between them, two potions, and a vile-tasting poultice that had sat on his tongue for half an hour, and _still_ there were no results. Basil sat on the couch in his sitting room, wrapped up in a blanket and sulking as his condition was being discussed as though he wasn’t even in the room.

“Do you think he even _has_ vocabularyitus at this point?” Sarah Jane posed. “I mean, it’s being especially stubborn for your average, run-of-the-mill strain.”

“I almost want to call in Dr. Jones, but she and Dr. Sullivan are having a row right now and it’s probably not the best time,” Donna frowned.

“We could call Dr. Bombay…?”

“No; I’m surprised that man hasn’t lost his license yet.”

“How long does it normally run its course?” Clara asked. “If he stays home tomorrow, then he has the whole weekend to recuperate.”

“Can’t—takes two whole weeks, and I doubt our wee bard over there can handle being cooped up for that long,” Donna replied. “At least we know you’re safe—mortals don’t get vocabularyitus unless they’re hexed.”

“Good to know,” she nodded.

“You know I’m still here, right? This is sort of _my_ plight.”

“Shush, dear, or you’ll be talking in sonnets next.”

“How did you know? Did I miss the memo?”

Sarah Jane wiggled her nose and Basil froze in place. “There, that’s better. If I could teach you one spell, Clara, it would be that one.”

“So useful,” Donna agreed. “I don’t think we could have made it through the Roman Days without it.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?” the mortal asked.

“Nope,” her sister-in-laws said in unison, Donna going as far as shaking her head. At least, if anything, they were united on that front.


End file.
